


Dead Again

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fingerfucking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Bruce Banner - Freeform, Mentions of Captain America - Freeform, Mentions of Tony Stark, Psychological Trauma, Same-Sex Marriage, Spideypool - Freeform, mentions of Nick Fury - Freeform, mentions of avengers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2018-08-11 10:15:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7887235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Actually, Wade's <i>alive</i>. Again. And Peter . . . is <i>not</i> happy. Written for this prompt (http://writing-challenges-and-prompts.tumblr.com/post/149483124553/deepwaterwritingprompts-odd-prompts-for-odd). See end notes for full prompt.</p><p>Notes/Warnings: AU. No overt spoilers I can think of, except for Ellie, herself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dead Again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Four_Nostril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Four_Nostril/gifts).



_God, ‘dying is easy’ was the biggest lie ever. I’m_ exhausted!

 

It’s the first thing Wade Winston Wilson thinks as he struggles and groans his way back to consciousness. Aside from the usual _OWIE_! that is his shit-show skin, his entire body aches not only from his most recent injuries—something about a Hydra agent with a fucking _grenade launcher_? Wade remembers in dim, hot-edged fragments—but from the apparently _massive_ amounts of healing that’d likely taken place, because . . .  _grenade launcher_.

 

He opens sore, thousand-pound eyelids and blinks, hissing as faint, grey-yellow dawnlight stabs him in the fucking pupils while the room slowly spins. It’s a few minutes before his eyes adjust . . . before the lingering pain subsides enough for Wade to notice three important things:

 

Important Thing 1: Wade is _not_ still in the smoking rubble that he and Spidey had turned the underground Hydra base into.

 

Important Thing 2: Wade is _also_ not in the Avenger’s Tower—mere minutes away from a Nick Fury debriefing/reaming out.

 

Important Thing 3: Wade is, apparently, in his bedroom, in his bed . . . still in the burnt/torn/bloody remnants of his suit, except for the mask. Bea and Arthur are on Wade’s grab-n-go weapons rack—the one and _only_ weapons rack Peter allows him to keep in their bedroom—and his usual assortment of guns and blades are also in their usual spots on the rack.

 

 _Huh_ , Wade thinks as his bleary mind begins to clear and process. White and Yellow are still M.I.A., for the moment—neither Box tends to hang around when Wade is badly injured or unalived. It’ll probably be at least another hour or two before they turn up, Johnny-come-lately.

 

So Wade simply closes his eyes with a sigh and enjoys the silence for a while, as the rest of him steadily heals and comes back online. He feels like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod . . . only less handsome and without a barge and lacking the amazing Peter Wingfield as his _totally subtext_ love-interest.

 

(Not that Wade's _own,_ totally _text_ love interest isn't somehow a _trillion_ times better.)

 

At any rate, he’s only been drifting—half-sleeping—for a few minutes when he notices Important Thing 4 (though, really, it should've been number _one_ ):

 

“Where’s Petey?” he exhales, eyes opening as he sits up without thinking about it. It hurts—of _course_ it hurts . . . and the room’s spinning worse than ever—but he’s more worried about _Peter_ , than anything. Because, _hello_? _Grenade launcher_.

 

Wade starts to swing his legs over the side of the bed, ready to search the house—fucking go back and search the _Hydra_ _base_ , if necessary—to find his husband, put them both back to bed, and cuddle for, oh, about _ten_ _million_ years.

 

It doesn’t occur to him (except that maybe, on _some_ level, it _does_ ) that he might not’ve been the _only_ _one_ to unalive, last night.

 

He won’t _let it_ occur to him.

 

Wade’s almost to his feet when he suddenly feels . . . watched. He may not have Peter’s spidey-sense, but he’s developed his own instinct for feeling eyes on him. And so _intensely_ , too. So, he looks up and sees. . . .

 

Peter . . . arms crossed, standing in the doorway, wearing one of Wade’s Spider-Man t-shirts—which bags on him in a way that Wade’s _always_ found _ridiculously_ sexy—and a pair of cut-off jeans, his pale, perfect legs seeming to go on for _days_ , till they end in narrow, almost delicate bare feet, which tense on the hardwood floor.

 

His fine-featured face is unreadable except for the weariness of it, those dark brown eyes in faint grey circles. His dark hair is damp, curling ever so slightly around his face. Wade smiles a little, even though that, too, hurts, kinda. Because all he wants is to take Peter in his arms, inhale the _scent_ of him—the mild, hypo-allergenic body wash he uses; his foofy-girly shampoo, because if Peter Parker-Wilson is vain about _one_ _thing_ , it’s _definitely_ his _hair_ ; and something sweet and almost woodsy that’s just _Peter_ —so familiar and beloved. That scent means home and _happiness_ . . . sums it up better than Wade ever could.

 

“Heyya, Baby Boy,” he croaks out around a throat that feels like it’s full of smoke and broken glass.

 

Peter watches him with that unreadable expression for most of a minute before speaking, arms still crossed like he’s pissed.

 

“Glad you’re up and about,” he says, sounding anything but. Sounding flat and cold. “More or less.”

 

“Decidedly less, at the moment,” Wade rasps, frowning and shrugging as he gives up trying to stand and sinks back down to their bed in relief. “Glad I don’t have to head back to the smoking hole in the ground we left to collect you. Thought you mighta got . . . hurt.”

 

Peter shrugs, too, his intent eyes sidling off to Wade’s weapons rack, going hooded in the space of one long-lashed blink. “Well, considering you tossed me out of the way of a fucking _grenade_ and got blown up in my stead . . . I’m pretty uninjured. Had to stitch up the back of my left calf because of a piece of shrapnel, but otherwise, I’m fine.”

 

“Good.”

 

And Wade sits there on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, not speaking, just watching Peter _not_ watch him. Watches as the occasional slew of emotion passes across the still, unaffected mask that Peter’s face tries to turn itself into when something’s wrong.

 

Finally, Wade sighs and shakes his head, his gaze dropping when Peter’s finally meets it with a wild sort of wariness. Something’s _very_ wrong and Wade isn’t firing on all cylinders. Even if he _was_ , Peter can be _fantastically_ hard to read, when he chooses to be. So there’ll be no guessing—no _rectifying_ —if Wade doesn’t _ask_.

 

“Petey, _baby_ —" he begins, but Peter interrupts him tersely, already half-turning to step out of their bedroom doorway and into the hall.

 

“I should get a start on breakfast,” he mumbles, practically under his breath. “Ellie’ll be awake in less than an hour. I can take her to school while you . . . finish healing up. Oh, and . . . and Fury wants us at the Tower at 8:30 sharp for a debrief, so. . . .”

 

“ _Peter_ ,” Wade says quietly, almost pleadingly. But Peter’s already disappeared down the hall, leaving Wade to swear and wait for the spinning of the room to stop.

 

#

 

It’s another few minutes before Wade can lever himself out of bed and make his way to the hall, quietly past Ellie’s room—a quick peek in shows that she _is_ still fast asleep for now, her Spider-Man and Deadpool plushies still clutched tight in her arms—and down the stairs to the first floor of their Elmhurst home.

 

He stagger-limps his way past the living room—which is a _disaster_ of toys and video-game consoles because Wade and Ellie have a tendency to make a mess of the place that _Peter_ eventually grumbles about and gets annoyed enough to clean and neaten, but hadn’t, _yet_ , because of the _Avengers_ _Assemble_ alert from Cap—past Peter’s office, which is, as always organized except for his messy, cluttered desk, and past Wade’s own weapons room which, behind it’s code-lock, is _pristine_ , the only thing he ever bothers to keep that way.

 

Finally, Wade is in the arched entryway to the kitchen, leaning against the left corner and watching Peter putter distractedly.

 

Though his husband doesn’t acknowledge him for several minutes, Wade knows that _Peter knows_ he’s there.

 

“You should be resting, still.” Peter’s voice is tight and tense underneath a thin veneer of pleasantness.

 

“Eh.” Wade shrugs again, even though Peter’s back is to him: one tense, straight line. Wade’s big t-shirt is slipping off Peter’s pale left shoulder, and Wade stifles a very inconvenient reaction and groan. Then, sighing, he steps into the kitchen, past the breakfast nook, and to the center island. He leans on it for a few seconds before sitting on one of the three stools. “I’m fine. Just a few twinges, that’s all. Uh . . . want some help with breakfast?”

 

“No.” Peter’s cracking eggs into a bowl singlehandedly, with sharp, jerky movements that nearly knock over a box of whole wheat pancake mix. Then he’s beating the eggs— _really beating_ them—with the same jerky movements, unlike his usual fluid grace.

 

Whatever’s going on . . . Wade isn’t going to wait for it to resolve itself. Because he knows if he does—if he waits for Peter to come to _him_ . . . well, that’ll just _never_ happen. Peter can, sometimes, be the most emotionally constipated person Wade has _ever_ met.

 

“. . . think you’ll be healed up enough for that parent-teacher meeting at Ellie’s school, later?” Peter’s asking in that scary-pleasant-tight voice. “It’s not until six-thirty, so you’ll have plenty of time to rest and recupe. But if you’re still out of it—”

 

“Peter—”

 

“—then I can just go solo after work. I’m certain there’s nothing problematic going on with her. Nothing that requires us _both_ to be there,” Peter finishes as if Wade hadn’t spoken. Then there’s no sound in the kitchen but the sound of the whisk and the sloshing eggs.

 

“Tell me what’s up, Pete,” Wade says hesitantly, quietly.

 

“Nothing’s up. Why should anything be up?”

 

Wade listens to the whisk for another minute—seriously, those eggs should be a _vapor_ , by now—then sighs, easing to his feet slowly, with a wince. “I was hoping that _you’d_ tell _me_ ,” Wade says, trying for gentle humor because Peter responds to it—usually—more than he does demands or pleas. And Wade wants to get whatever this is out in the open, then over and _done_ _with_ before it turns into a capital-P Problem between them.

 

“There’s nothing wrong,” Peter insists, the pleasantness gone from his voice, leaving only that tight tension. “Go lie down.”

 

“ _No_ , Petey.” Wade doesn’t do so well with demands, either. Doesn’t like following orders, even from Peter, that aren’t sexual in nature. So he can’t help the way the humor and gentleness leach out of his tone. “And I’m kinda through _askin’_ , baby-doll. _Tell me_ what’s wrong. _Now_.”

 

Peter’s whisking slows to a stop as his body goes utterly still. Then Wade’s thankfully recovered reflexes have him ducking the bowl of beaten eggs as it flies at his head. Wade’s already straightening and stepping around the island as the bowl of eggs shatters against the wall behind him.

 

He crosses the kitchen quickly, approaching Peter—who’s already facing the counter again, arms braced on it as he breathes fast, choppy, and hard, his torso almost heaving with it—till he’s directly behind his husband, one hand hovering at that exposed, vulnerable-looking left shoulder.

 

“Peter.” Wade freezes, at a loss for words and unwilling to touch a Peter who really _doesn’t_ seem to want it. “ _Jesus_ , sweetheart. What would Martha Stewart say?”

 

“I had to put you back together,” Peter pants in voice that sounds like it’s being choked out of him. “After the grenade, I . . . I had to sift through the rubble for _pieces of my husband_ , then take those pieces and _put them back together like a fucking jigsaw puzzle_.”

 

 _Oh_ , Wade thinks numbly, his hand dropping back to his side as he stares at Peter’s pale nape.

 

“And then, I had to wait for the pieces to _heal and reconnect_. I had to sit there in the rubble, with all the bodies and the _blood_ , while Cap and the others ran their asses off doing clean-up and cover-up, and wait and hope and fucking _pray_ —I haven’t done that since my _parents_ died—that my husband would come back to me like always. Banner kept trying to get me to let him . . . bundle up the pieces so we could take them back to the Tower, but I wouldn’t . . . _couldn’t_ let anyone near us. Not till you were b-better.” Peter’s voice cracks and breaks in a way Wade has never heard before, and so does his own wall of protective numbness. “And all I could think—” Peter’s sudden laugh is a harsh, hysterical bark. “All I could think was: What if he doesn’t come back, this time? What do I tell _our_ _daughter_? How do I explain to her that her invincible Daddy just wasn’t invincible _enough_ , this time? That . . . that he wouldn’t be coming _home_ , anymore? That it was _my_ _fucking_ _fault_ he was dead for keeps?”

 

“ _God_ , Petey . . . I’m _sorry_. . . .” Wade whispers, his heart aching in his chest even though it’d been, of necessity, the very first thing in him to heal.

 

“ _Don’t_!” Peter’s voice is still raw and broken, and bordering on hysterical. “Don’t fucking _say that_! Because you _aren’t_! You never _are_!”

 

Wade is shocked silent once more, left unable to speak even as Peter’s slim shoulders sag and he wraps his arms around himself as if to still the sudden shaking of his body.

 

He’s weeping. Silently, but deeply.

 

“You’re right, Peter: I’m _not_ sorry. I . . . I wasn’t gonna fucking _stand_ _there_ and watch you get hit with a fucking _grenade_!” bursts out of Wade in a voice that’s just as wrecked as Peter’s. “Unlike _me_ , when _you_ unalive, it’ll be permanent! And I’ll . . . I’ll still be _here_. _We’ll_ still be here, me and Ellie . . . without _you_. Without your love and your kindness. Without you to make everything sweeter and brighter and _better_ just by being there.” Of their own accord, Wade’s hands settle on Peter’s shoulders and though Peter shivers, he doesn’t pull away, as Wade half-expects him to. So Wade leans in until his lips are pressed to the sweet-smelling skin of Peter’s nape, that thick hair brushing his face. “I would step in front of a _million_ grenades to save you, Baby Boy, because I _can_. Because it’s my _job_. Because I _love_ you, and without you . . . without you, there’s _nothing_. No more me, no more _anything_.”

 

Peter sniffles. “Ellie—”

 

“You think I could be any kind of father to her _without_ you? That I could be a role model, be _good_ , be caring, be kind—be all those things that _you_ taught me how to be—without you to keep being an example?” Wade snorts bitterly. “Do you think I’d have this family, this _life_ , if _you_ hadn’t been with me when I found out about Ellie? That I could’ve taken care of her and done _right_ by her _without you_? Do you really think fucking _Deadpool_ coulda been any kinda _decent_ father to a kid?”

 

Peter’s shaking his head, but not in response to what Wade’s just said. “You’re wrong, Wade. You’re a _good_ _man_ , and—”

 

“No, _you’re_ a good man, Peter Parker-Wilson. You’re the _best_ man. And I . . . I am whatever I _have_ to be to keep you. You and Ellie _need_ me to be a good guy, so I _am_. I’m good even when I don’t _give_ a Christing fuck. Because you _need_ me to be. I stay on the straight and narrow for _you_. I do it _all_ for you. . . .” Wade trails off for a few moments, feeling as if he’s torn himself open. And yet, there’s nothing else for it but to _keep_ tearing. “Everything about me that’s good, Peter, is _you_. You’re more than my husband—more than my hero . . . you’re my _soul_. My heart. My conscience. My fucking _reason_.” Snuffling into Peter’s hair for a minute, he eventually sighs again. “When I saved you tonight, I was really saving _myself_. Sure, unaliving by grenade hurt like a _motherfucker_ and I’d rather _never_ do that again, if it can be helped. But . . . don’t you _understand_ , Petey? That without _you_ , there’s no _me_? Not to go all Bryan Adams on your sexy ass, but . . . everything I do, I do it for _you_.”

 

Peter’s giggle is waterlogged and unwilling. “Don’t make me laugh, fucker,” he says, still sniffling despite the giggles. “I fucking _hate_ you.”

 

Wade smiles a little against Peter’s soft, fragrant skin, humming almost happily. “Well, it’s true, Baby Boy. I’ve moved and _would_ _move_ fucking _mountains_ for you.” His hands skim down Peter’s shoulder-blades, to his sides, to settle on his waist, then he sways them both slowly, closing his eyes and just letting himself _be_ with Peter. “ _All for you_ ,” he murmurs.

 

“Wade . . . every time you unalive, I _die_ inside. A little worse, each time. And tonight . . . tonight was worse than _ever_ because you did it to save _me_ ,” Peter whispers, stricken and guilty-sounding. Another shudder works its way through his wiry body, hard enough to shake Wade, too. “It hurts so much, I don’t know how I bear it when it happens the _next_ _time_ . . . but I _do_. Somehow, I do. Got no choice, I guess. I just wish. . . .”

 

“I know, baby . . . me, too.” Wade’s squeezes Peter tight to himself. “Wanna retire? Maybe give up the superhero gig and move to a small, out-of-the-way island in the Pacific, where no one speaks English and definitely has _not_ heard of either Spider-Man or Deadpool?”

 

Peter laughs wearily. “That depends . . . could we get a place on the beach? With a deck and some hammocks? And coconut trees?”

 

“Baby, we can get anything you _want_. You just have to say the word.”

 

“Mm . . . we’ll spend our days turning brown and helping Ellie build sandcastles. And our nights walking on the beach and making love in our hammocks,” Peter says wistfully. Wade snorts again.

 

“Petey, _clearly_ you’ve _never_ tried to fuck in a hammock, before. Logistical _nightmare_.” Wade groans, sounding so aggrieved, Peter laughs again. And _this_ laugh has _almost_ no sniffles in it. “But you say the word, and I’ll make it happen so fast, your head’ll spin.”

 

Peter is the one to sigh, this time. Then again, ending in a soft, desperate moan when Wade kisses his way to Peter’s bare shoulder, nibbling on the sharp, prominent blade. Peter stops holding onto the counter and starts holding onto Wade’s arms.

 

“I want to, babe . . . more than _anything_. But. . . .”

 

“Yeah, I know,” Wade says gently, sucking faint salt and less-faint sweet from Peter’s soft skin. “I know. But I just want _you_ to know that that’s _always_ on the table. I will take you _wherever_ you want and we can live out our lives away from the bullshit drama we have to deal with while playing heroes.”

 

“I can’t lie and say I’m not sorely tempted. But the world needs us to be . . . _us_. To be _heroes_. To stand up when it _can’t_. Besides.” There’s a small smile in Peter’s low tenor. “Aunt May’d _kill_ us both if we ever moved that far away from her.”

 

“Oh, like we wouldn’t bring her along,” Wade scoffs, occasioning another giggle from Peter. Or maybe it’s the renewed nibbling that does that. “She’d find some twenty-five-year old pretty-boy and be a _total_ cougar. Cut a swath through all the hot guys on the island. Get herself a real rep.”

 

“ _Ew_ , Wade . . . that’s my _aunt_ you’re talking about!” Peter sounds terribly offended.

 

“Hey, women over sixty have needs, too. And May’s still pretty _slammin’_ , even at her age.”

 

“Ugh, I can _hear_ you leering, horn-dog.” Peter leans his head back on Wade’s shoulder, practically melting against and into Wade’s aching, but interested body. Wade’s kisses turn neckward, eventually working their way up to that sweet-spot behind Peter’s ear. He smiles when Peter moans again, pushing back against him with serious intent. Then Peter’s breath catches when he feels Wade’s burgeoning erection against the small of his back.

 

“Please tell me that’s not a result of talking about my Aunt May seducing young island boys?” he asks, chuckling. Wade catches Peter’s ear lobe between careful teeth.

 

“It’s a result of _you_ , Baby Boy. You should know by now that even just being in the same room with you makes me hard. The question becomes,” Wade whispers, blowing in Peter’s ear for the shiver it always causes. “What’re _you_ gonna do about it?”

 

“Hmm.” Peter hums in consideration, his hands sliding up and down Wade’s arms. “Considering that you’re recovering from getting blown to literal smithereens a few hours ago, maybe we should take a raincheck on this bad boy till . . . later,” Peter suggests, grinding back against Wade for a moment, then he starts to shift away. Wade pulls him right back, hands tight on Peter’s slim hips, holding him in place as he grinds his hard-on against that _amazing_ ass.

 

“ _Or_ ,” Wade counters smoothly, one hand slipping around to Peter’s distended fly. _Oh_ , _yeah_ , they’re on the same page. “I could bend you over the center island, shove those cut-offs down, and fuck you hard and fast.”

 

“ _Wade_ ,” Peter breathes, all wanting and wanton, obviously torn between thrusting forward against Wade’s palm and back against his cock.

 

“I’ll take that as an enthusiastic _yes_ ,” Wade says dryly, straightening up and letting go of Peter’s hip to open the cupboard just above them. He pushes aside the maple syrup and grabs the half-empty bottle of canola oil that’d been behind it.

 

Whatever. It’ll do.

 

Really _gotta start stashing lube around the house, not just in the bedroom and bathroom,_ he thinks though, briefly wishing _Yellow_ , at least, had come back. The Box is better at remembering things like stocking up on and stashing lube than Wade and White are.

 

Then Wade’s turning Peter and walking them to the center island. He _thunks_ the bottle of oil on the island next to the bowl with the apples, and busies himself undoing Peter’s fly—with an epic and truly _unnecessary_ amount of fondling—while Peter giggles and shoves off Wade’s big t-shirt and flings it at the breakfast nook.

 

When Peter steps out of the cut-offs and kicks them away— _not_ wearing any underwear . . . Wade has taught him well, indeed—Wade tears the mostly-melted zipper of his own destroyed pants (what’s left of them . . . and it ain’t _much_ ) open, his now fully erect cock springing out to thwap against his body.

 

Wade uncaps the oil and coats his first two fingers liberally then, fingers dripping, looks his husband over: that perfect gymnast’s body, pale-gold under the light above the center island, the well-defined, but not bulky muscles of shoulders, arms, and back—the _divine_ ass that’s become Wade’s _every_ stroke fantasy, and has been since the night Deadpool and Spider-Man first met eight years ago—the lean, long, _strong_ thighs Wade loves best when they’re wrapped around his hips . . . or bracketing his face.

 

“Fuck, but you’re _gorgeous_ , Baby Boy,” sighs out of him as he brushes his oily fingers down the crack of Peter’s ass. Peter makes an appreciative noise that stutters breathlessly when Wade presses between his cheeks, teasing and circling Peter’s rim till those stutters become moans and impatient thrusts backward against Wade’s fingers. Too far gone to play games, for once, Wade happily obliges his hasty spider and slowly eases his finger past that tight ring of muscle . . . then pushes the rest of the way in, as deep as he can go, in one quick thrust that forces a soft, helpless cry out of Peter. Strong, clutching muscles clamp down on Wade instantly. “ _Jesus_ , Petey, how’re you still so goddamn _tight_ after nearly five years of takin’ _my_ cock?”

 

Peter huffs a brief laugh. “Mm, dunno. I should be the size of the Holland-fucking-Tunnel, by now. I’ve seen draft-horses with smaller dicks than yours,” he agrees cheerfully as Wade begins finger-fucking him with fast, efficient strokes that are more about preparation than pleasure. For the moment, he avoids Peter’s prostate altogether. “I’m no Deadpool, or Wolverine, but spidey-healing’s still pretty amazing. Maybe amazing enough to keep me nice and tight for you _forever_.”

 

“Yeah,” Wade exhales as he pushes in _two_ fingers, careful and slow. Peter whimpers, but in that _good_ way that means he’s _really_ into what Wade’s doing. So Wade, after giving Peter a few minutes to acclimate, fucks him a little harder, scissoring his fingers increasingly, daring, now, to occasionally brush Peter’s prostate—the _ultimate_ sweet-spot—until Peter’s begging:

 

“Three . . . three . . . _now, please, Wade_. . . .”

 

Wade pulls out a bit faster than he means to, to coat his fingers in oil again— _three_ of them, this time—then pushes back into Peter, who makes a sound of relief and impales himself back onto Wade’s fingers and into his thrusts.

 

It isn’t long before he’s clenching around Wade’s fingers in the way that means he’s _ready_. Ready for Wade’s cock. Also known as _The Best Moments In Wade’s Life_ Ever.

 

Wade’s free hand, which’d been on Peter’s hip, moves to his stomach and down a bit. Peter’s dick is _hard_ and hugging his stomach, precome smeared all over and droozling down his shaft.

 

“You’re so fucking _ready_ for me, aren’t you, Baby Boy?” Wade strokes Peter’s cock slow and hard, and Peter hisses, pushing back onto Wade’s fingers even harder.

 

“ _Been_ ready for you, Wade . . . _please_. . . .”

 

“Mm, so _pretty_ when you _beg_ , baby.” Wade removes his fingers again, goes for more oil, and slathers it on his aching dick, counting backwards from twenty-five as he does so, to keep himself from coming _on_ Peter’s ass, instead of _in_ it.

 

Then he’s kissing Peter’s shoulder again, murmuring: “I _love_ you, Petey. For _always_.”

 

Peter moans loud and long as Wade’s cock—which is, not to brag, _well_ above average size—pushes into him in one steady, slow stroke, not stopping until Wade’s balls-deep and they’re both panting, yet still unable to catch their breaths.

 

It’s _just_ _that_ _good_.

 

And amazingly enough, with time and frequent repeats, it only gets _better_.

 

“ _Move_ , Wade . . . _please_?” Peter draws a shaking breath. “ _Move_.”

 

“You are _officially_ my favorite person in the _entire_ universe, Petey. I want you to know that. You had me at _hello,_ ” Wade informs him solemnly, but Peter laughs again, one hand leaving the center island counter to settle on Wade’s, where it rests on Peter’s hip once more.

 

“Shut up and _fuck me_ , Jerry Maguire.”

 

Wade, never needing to be told twice, is thrilled to oblige. He pulls out nice and slow, the head of his cock—uncut, which Peter, who _is_ cut, _loves_ . . . loves to feel in him and to worship with his lips and tongue—dragging on every _inch_ of Peter’s tight hole as he does, then slams back in. Not as hard as he can, or as hard as he _wants_ . . . not _yet_. But still hard enough that Peter makes a high-pitched noise in the back of his throat, strangled and short, that’s probably an attempt at Wade’s name.

 

“I know, Petey . . . I know,” Wade pants, already sweating, as he rips off the top half of his suit, dropping it on the floor. He plasters himself to Peter’s back for a few moments, wrapping his arms around his husband’s body. “Still want it hard and fast, baby? ‘Cause I could go either way, right now: fucking or love-making. Up to you.”

 

“ _Really_ wanna be fucked, right now,” Peter answers without hesitation, clenching his muscles tight around Wade, till Wade swears and lays his head on Peter’s shoulder, counting again so he doesn’t blow his load before he’s had a chance to actually _fuck_ Peter. “I wanna _feel_ you in me for the rest of the day: while Fury’s debriefing me, while Stark and I are working the new webbing compounds and shooter . . . while we’re at that parent-teacher’s meeting.” That smile is back in Peter’s voice, both sweet and filthy, and Wade has _never_ loved anyone as much as he loves Peter Parker-Wilson. “I wanna be squirming in my seat while Ellie’s teachers tell us how _amazing_ and smart our daughter is. And I want _you_ to know _why_ I’m squirming, and to think about it till you’re so hard, that tonight, you _wear me the fuck out._ ”

 

“ _FUCK_.” Wade grips Peter’s hip and pulls out fast, only to drive back in, causing Peter to yelp and scrabble at the counter. “You’re gonna be feelin’ me for a _week_ , by the time I’m done turning this ass out, Baby Boy.”

 

Then neither of them are speaking anymore, reduced to moans and groans, grunts and gasps, as Wade fucks Peter in earnest, swiveling his hips till he finds Peter’s spot—quickly, because he’s an old hand at it, now—and increasing the power behind his thrusts till sweat is rolling off them both.

 

Wade _loves_ the way Peter’s muscles tighten around him, fluttering and spasming, as if torn between trying to force out the intrusion that is Wade’s draft-horse dick, or accept it. Eventually, however, Peter’s body just _gives_ around him in this crazy-sexy way that _never_ fails to steal Wade’s breath and higher brain functions. Peter’s still tight and twitchy and fluttery—still _perfect_ —but there’s a new submissiveness that _only_ comes when Wade’s doing his job _exactly right_ . . . Peter’s body quite literally _yearns_ toward him, _cries out_ for him . . . tries to hold and _keep_ him inside. And though Wade is always certain that he’s bottomed out before they even _reach_ this point, Peter’s body lets him go a little deeper after that. A little _closer_ to the burning _heart_ of him.

 

This time is no different.

 

When Peter’s body gives, Wade takes a deep breath and on his next thrust, goes all out. Lets his body take over and fuck Peter as hard as it wants. As hard as it _can_ , holding nothing back. His hips are machine-like, pistoning forward and back, his grip on Peter’s hips bruise-tight, not even slipping a little on Peter’s sweat-slick skin.

 

When all is said and done, it’s not a marathon screw—hell, Wade can go for _hours_ , when he’s _really_ worked up . . . like he has no doubt he’ll be by the time they get home later tonight, after all of Peter’s . . . _squirming_ —though Wade definitely makes it worth Peter’s while. But sooner, rather than later, Peter’s moaning again, trying to pull Wade’s left hand around to his dick. Wade smiles and plants a sloppy kiss on Peter’s neck, and grasps Peter’s slippery dick, jerking it hard and without much rhythm. But it’s clearly just what Peter needs because as Wade swipes his thumb across the tip, Peter stiffens, clenches all around him, then shoots so hard, it’s as if he’s been punched in the gut by the fucking _Hulk_.

 

“ _Fuck_ , baby . . . so _hot_. . . .” Wade’s come-dripping hand eases off of Peter’s softening cock, and Peter whimpers again, his suddenly limp body sprawling across the counter, letting Wade hold him up by both hips, once more.

 

Then Wade’s fucking into Peter _hard_ , wild, and reckless. Rhythm is a thing of the past as Wade grunts and groans and murmurs affectionate filth on Peter’s shoulder, bent over his husband’s shivering, panting body. Until, finally—

 

“Oh, _fuck_ , _Pete_ , gonna—” Wade gasps as Peter makes a muffled, but amused sound, tightening lax muscles around Wade till Wade’s body reaches a fucking _crescendo_ , balls drawing up tight to his body as his dick practically _explodes_ in Peter’s body. He comes so hard it _burns_ and hurts, like he’s giving Peter more than just a few ounces of extra-hot, liquid Wade, but giving his _life force_ . . . his _soul_ , if he even _has_ one.

 

“Pete— _Peter_ —” he calls out, probably too loud, clutching at Peter, probably too hard. But Peter merely hums and clenches even tighter around Wade, milking the already _devastating_ orgasm for all it’s worth. . . .

 

Then, after an eternity, Wade is _done_. Just . . . _done_.

 

He slumps over Peter, trying to catch his breath and keep his legs from folding like a rickety card table. Despite his usually nonexistent refractory time, Wade is just off a pretty _nasty_ unaliving, so his cock isn’t, for a little while, anyway, going to be getting immediately hard again.

 

When he shifts a little, he slowly slides out of Peter, aided by ridiculous amounts of come and canola. Peter still makes a small sound of discomfort . . . but it turns into a happy sigh when Wade nuzzles his neck and manages to snake his hand between them, easing three fingers into Peter’s body, to help mitigate some of that post-sex, “empty, awful” feeling Peter's hated since right after their first time together. He slowly thrusts in and out of Peter, till the muscles twitching around him relax and Peter sighs again, chuckling.

 

“Okay?” Wade asks quietly, solicitously. Peter nods, humming once more, trying to straighten up. With one final thrust, Wade eases his fingers out of Peter, his hand joining its mate on Peter’s hip again. When Peter’s standing more or less on his own, Wade pulls his husband back against him for some intensive upright-cuddling.

 

“Mmm . . . sun’s up,” Peter notes nearly ten minutes later. Wade snuffles into Peter’s hair yet again, because it just—it _smells_ _so_ —

 

“ _Fuck_ , Petey,” Wade breathes.

 

“We already _did_ , Wade.” Peter laughs and Wade lets go of one hip to catch Peter’s hand, bringing it up to his lips. He lays a gentle kiss on Peter’s platinum wedding band, linking their fingers together and admiring those matching rings. It’s been two years, almost, and he _still_ can’t believe Peter said _yes_.

 

Wade shifts them around so they can watch the rest of sunrise through one of the kitchen windows. And they do, until Peter squeezes his fingers.

 

“Okay, enough sky-gazing, hub, time for you to hose off.”

 

“Don’t wanna . . . ‘m comf’able.”

 

“Too bad. You _reek_ like a dead thing. Which makes sense, considering. Plus, we agreed that we wouldn’t let Ellie see you _looking_ like you’d recently unalived. Or like we’ve just had sex. And since she’ll be coming down for breakfast any minute, now. . . .”

 

“Damn. Right.” Wade disengages from Peter regretfully. “Okay. Fastest shower on record, then I’ll be back to help you with brekkies.”

 

“Nah, don’t rush. Enjoy the warm water—I actually managed to fix the damn water heater, yesterday afternoon, so, yeah.” Peter turns to face Wade, looking him over with one eyebrow quirked up archly. “You look _so_ wrecked, babe. Go take a nice, long shower, and when you’re done, breakfast’ll be ready.”

 

“Yes, Baby Boy. Whatever you say, Baby Boy.” Wade kisses Peter’s forehead. “Such a pretty, caring little wife you are.”

 

“Anything for my hub,” is Peter’s unoffended reply. Then he makes a face. “Seriously, though . . . _canola oil_? Ick, I can feel it running down my thighs!”

 

Wade snickers, turning to saunter out of the kitchen, bare-ass naked and hoping Peter enjoys the free show. “It’s called _improvisation_ , Petey-pie. Don’t act like you’re not a fan.”

 

Peter scoffs as Wade turns the corner, but it sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

 

#

 

“. . . and then, Bobby started to cry, so . . . I punched Jeff Mears in the stomach. _Hard_ ,” Ellie says firmly as Wade walks into the kitchen, feeling about 95% better for the shower, and dressed in another Spidey t-shirt and sweatpants. “He cried for, like, twenty minutes, too.”

 

Peter, dressed once more in his cut-offs and Wade’s big shirt, tsks as he pours coffee in Wade’s Spider-Man mug, then adds plenty of cream and sugar. He turns from the counter and coffee maker in time to get kissed by Wade—who carefully dips his startled husband and really lays on the razzmatazz, till Ellie is making gagging noises—then straightens back up, taking the mug with a murmured: “Thanks, baby,” and a big smile. Peter, looking thoroughly dazed smiles back.

 

“Hmm,” is all he says, flushed and turning back to the counter. Wade struts to the breakfast nook and sits in front of his heaping plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes, and tucks in after taking a sip of coffee and covering the entire plate in maple syrup. Across from him, Ellie—who’s inherited Wade’s appetite—is already half-done with her breakfast, gnawing on a piece bacon thoughtfully as she watches Wade.

 

“What’s kickin’, chicken?” he asks her, eyebrows raised. “Did I hear right when I walked in? Are you fighting, again?”

 

Ellie’s café au lait cheeks turn red but she holds Wade’s gaze steadily. “No . . . well, sorta. Jeff Mears was picking on Bobby at recess, yesterday. Shoving him until he fell down and started to cry. So . . . I gave _Jeff_ something to cry about.” Her brows furrow. “He was being a _bully_ , and Bobby’s my best friend. I _had_ to protect him.”

 

“But, sweetie, violence isn’t the answer,” Peter says, sitting in front of his own plate, sipping carefully at his piping-hot black coffee. Wade is the one to make a face, now, because who even drinks coffee _black_? “You’ve _gotta_ learn to use your _words_.”

 

Ellie gives Peter a _c’mon, seriously, Spider-Man?_ look, and Peter blushes and glances at Wade for help. Wade sighs and swallows his mouthful of syrupy eggs. “Your Papa’s right, Ellie-bear. You can’t use your fists to solve _everything_. That’s Daddy’s job.”

 

“ _Wade_!” Peter, without any sense of irony, punches Wade in the arm. Wade winces and rubs his arm, shrugging at Peter apologetically.

 

Ellie’s mouth purses. “I know,” she says finally, looking down at her plate. She picks up her fork and pokes at her eggs. She, like Wade, has drowned them in maple syrup. “Next time, I’ll tell the teacher or the recess monitor, it’s just . . . it made me so _mad_! Bobby’s so _nice_ and Jeff’s such a . . . _skidmark_!”

                                                                                                                                         

“ _Ellie Camacho-Wilson_!” Peter exclaims, sounding _exactly_ like his Aunt May when _she’s_ scandalized by something _Wade’s_ said.

 

“Sorry, Papa, but he _is_!” Ellie scowls. “I’m sorry I said it, I guess, but that doesn’t make it not true.”

 

To that, Peter has no reply, it seems. Instead, he looks at Wade, widening his already wide, dark eyes as if to say: you _do something!_

 

Wade groans, putting down his fork. “Ellie-vator, ya gotta be _smarter_ about how you handle bullies and bad guys. I’m not gonna lie and say that words _always_ work, but . . . if you’re not actually defending yourself or someone else from real physical danger, you should try to talk it out. Sometimes, that actually _works_ ,” he adds, shrugging.

 

Ellie sighs. “Okay,” she mutters glumly. Then she looks up at Peter. “I’m sorry I didn’t try words first, Papa. I’ll try to remember if it happens again.”

 

Peter smiles a little, tension melting from his shoulders. He’s always been a soft touch when it comes to Ellie, and they all know it. But Ellie . . . she loves her Papa as much as she loves Wade, and despite having inherited both Wade’s _and_ her mother’s tempers, she tries to be good, for Peter’s sake. Probably for the same reasons Wade does.

 

“Good, sweetie. I just . . . I don’t want you starting something that maybe . . . maybe you can’t _finish_. I don’t want anything _bad_ to happen to you.” Peter looks down at his plate, his face grave and worried. Wade knows he’s thinking about last night.

 

Wade and Ellie share a glance, and he can tell from the keen look in her eyes, she knows that _something_ of the non-good variety had happened last night. That her parents’ alter-egos had had more trouble than usual on that last minute call to the Avengers’ Tower and that Peter’s concern for her, this morning, might be spill-over from that.

 

She’s a smart kid. Almost _scary_ -smart. Must get it from her mother. Or from _Peter_ , somehow.

 

“Heyya, I’ve got my two favorite people right here, it’s a gorgeous spring day, and y’know what? I feel like goin’ to Coney Island!” Wade says suddenly, and Ellie’s eyes light up. So do Peter’s, but he tries to be the voice of reason, as always.

 

“Baby, it’s a school-day, and I’ve got work. . . .” he protests half-heartedly, but Wade waves a dismissive hand.

 

“Jeez-Louise, Petey-pie, Ellie’s already been skipped _two_ _grades_ —she’s the only ten-years-old in fu—uh, _freakin’_ seventh grade. She’s gettin’ straight A’s and she almost never _misses_ a day! That deserves a reward. A skip-day!”

 

“Wade. Love of my life, light of my heart . . . we have to meet a certain _director_ at a certain _Tower_ for a certain _debriefing_ , remember?” Peter hints pointedly. Wade snorts.

 

“We can tell Fury that I was . . . indisposed, and just do it _tomorrow_ morning,” Wade says, with no consideration for Peter’s attempt at discretion. Ellie’s watching them both with unhidden, bright-eyed interest. Peter tries again, from another angle.

 

“Look, the parent-teachers’ conference—”

 

“Isn’t for another twelve hours, nearly. I _think_ we’ll be back in time for it,” Wade replies dryly, waggling his brows in what he hopes is a convincing manner. Peter rolls his eyes and sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

 

“Why am I the _only_ adult in this house?” he asks the ceiling. Unsurprisingly, the ceiling has no insights or answers.

 

“You’ve been working _really_ hard, Papa . . . maybe _you_ need a day off, too,” Ellie says, blinking at Peter soulfully. Wade smirks—the kid is _good_ —and turns an equally soulful, if not as cute, gaze on his husband. Peter’s eyes tick back and forth between them before he finally sighs again, shaking his head.

 

“You two are _unbelievable_ ,” he says, throwing up his hands in surrender. “Absolutely unbelievable, ganging up on me, like this!”

 

“Oh, _c’mon_ , Baby Boy . . . it’s not _that_ unbelievable. I mean . . . we’re _us_. _Hello_?” Wade says, with a large helping of _duh!_ in his tone. Ellie giggles, shoveling eggs into her mouth, and Peter takes a quick, big sip of his coffee—which is still _scalding_ , since he never puts cream in it. He hisses and swears, glaring at the mug before putting it down, and looking at his husband and daughter sternly as they watch him with wide eyes.

 

“I burned my tongue,” he says primly.

 

“That’s no excuse, Petey,” Wade informs him apologetically. Ellie giggles again.

 

“Swear jar, Papa,” she says smugly, pointing at the jar, which sits on the center island, near the apple bowl. It’s getting pretty full again, mostly because of Wade. If Peter keeps up with the potty-mouth, soon, they’re going to have to _Coinstar_ that bitch.

 

Peter mutters down at his plate, something about an I.O.U. Wade and Ellie smirk at each other.

 

“Freakin’ outnumbered,” Peter grumbles ruefully, shoving a piece of bacon into his mouth and chewing it like it’s offended him. “In my own _home_.”

 

Wade and Ellie snicker—they have the same snicker, the same laugh—and they all finish eating breakfast in contented—for the most part—silence. Eventually, Peter stops scowling and even starts to smile a little, his face golden in the early morning sunlight and drawing Ellie’s winsome smile, too. _He’s_ so beautiful and _she’s_ so beautiful—Wade’s _family_ is _so beautiful_ —that it takes his breath away, and for long minutes, all he can do is stare between the two people he loves most. Then, smiling a little, too, he tucks back into his syrupy breakfast, ignoring Peter’s pointedly-raised eyebrow when he belches and neglects to excuse himself. Ellie giggles again, covering her mouth.

 

And so the morning passes.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: _“God, ‘dying is easy’ was the biggest lie ever. I’m exhausted.”_
> 
> My first SpideyPool-family fic. Ellie's my favorite Marvel kid. I'd love to write more of her, so if you feel like prompting me . . . you know what to do.
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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